


More To It

by Topicabo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mild Language, Mycroft's fun to tease, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Pre-Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 20:18:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8027590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topicabo/pseuds/Topicabo
Summary: Greg reports to Mycroft after the Baskerville incident. What was merely supposed to be a normal debriefing becomes a much more in-depth conversation.





	More To It

**Author's Note:**

> This one fought me. This one's been fighting me for about six months now. So it feels pretty good to finally be posting this.
> 
> I always kind of wondered what happened to Greg after the whole Baskerville case wrapped up. I'm taking some liberties with how I imagine the HOUND drug might affect people, but I think it's still plausible.

“There wasn’t much left to do after that. The Dartmoor force got to the scene in less than an hour.”

 

Greg slouched in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the elder Holmes busied himself by the globe bar in the corner of the Stranger’s Room.

 

“Sherlock actually cooperated with most of the debriefing. And John made sure Henry was taken care of. I can’t see the poor bloke being done with therapy anytime soon, but maybe now he can make a proper break from the whole mess. Frankland-“

 

Greg stopped, grimacing. “The locals will have a hell of a time finding what’s left of him. Especially so close to that minefield.”

 

Mycroft shook his head, facing away from Greg as he poured their drinks. “Unpleasant business all around, to say the least.”

 

Greg didn’t answer, distracted as he’d noticed that his hands were shaking again. Frustrating that his body didn’t have the good decency to let him know when it was happening. Footsteps approached and Greg abruptly straightened, drawing his arms closer to his sides.

 

Mycroft didn’t comment on that. Instead, he offered one of two liquor-filled glasses to Greg.

 

“Whiskey, no ice, correct?”

 

Greg smiled. “Ta,” he said, taking it. He didn’t question how Mycroft knew without asking.

 

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth lifted a fraction in silent reply. He moved to the chair across from Greg and sat, crossing his legs.

 

“Anyway," Greg said, "everything was pretty well in hand. Soon as they cleared me, I drove back.”

 

Mycroft delicately sipped his drink. “I thank you for keeping me abreast on the situation, Detective Inspector. And for your detailed report.” He looked Greg up and down, a small frown forming. “You look exhausted.”

 

The sweep of Mycroft’s eyes sent prickles running throughout his body. Greg took a liberal swallow of his whiskey, hoping it would take the edge off the sensation.

 

“It’s been an interesting few days, Mr. Holmes.”

 

Mycroft’s frown deepened. He set his drink aside and folded his hands together. “I have been remiss to ask, but are you alright?”

 

Greg found himself a bit irritated by the question. This wasn’t exactly his first time digging Sherlock out of a dangerous situation. Besides the connection to Baskerville and his git of a little brother, Greg wasn’t sure why this case should have warranted even a momentary interest to Mycroft.  

 

“Yeah, fine,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “A bit tired though.”

 

“You’re sure?”

 

Greg shrugged stiffly, the itching under his skin getting harder to ignore. “Had some weird ringing in my ears earlier, though that might’ve had something to do with a mine going off in front of my face.”

 

“Hm. And what about that?”

 

He didn’t register Mycroft’s meaning for an embarrassingly long second. Then Greg picked up on the fact that his trembling grip was sending shudders through his whiskey.

 

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly, placing the traitorous drink on the side table next to his chair.

 

“Subterfuge is not your forte, Detective Inspector.”

 

Greg glanced up to find Mycroft’s eyes trained on him, intent and focused. It made him feel as though he’d suddenly become transparent. A fist of anxiety clenched inside Greg’s chest.

 

“The effects of the project H.O.U.N.D. drug can be rather disconcerting. However, without continual doses, your symptoms should fade by tomorrow. If you’d prefer to postpone until then-“

 

“No.” Greg sucked in an unsteady breath and shook his head. “I’m fine, alright? Just… just stop looking at me like that.”

 

Mycroft’s gaze softened, relaxing its hold on him. “Forgive my rudeness,” he said in a gentler tone. “It is a bit presumptuous of me to pry, but I do feel indirectly responsible for your current state.”

 

Greg sighed wearily, grateful as his nerves calmed somewhat. “What are you on about? Don’t think you were the one who booby-trapped Dewer’s Hollow with military chemicals.”

 

“I hardly would have chosen such an ineffectual method as that.” Mycroft paused, and Greg wondered at the troubled look slipping past his impassive mask. “Regardless, had I made a proper inquiry into Sherlock’s investigation, it might have prevented matters from escalating as they did. Perhaps the incident in Dewer’s Hollow could have been avoided altogether.”

 

Mycroft pressed his fingertips together and touched them to his lips, his expression pensive. The gesture was so Holmesian in its nature that Greg was struck by how similar the man really was to his younger brother. He wasn’t sure why he kept forgetting that.

 

“I use you far too freely,” Mycroft murmured. “Your exposure to the hallucinogen was thankfully limited, but it is inexcusable that you should be suffering any ill effects because of my oversight. Especially when you were involved in these matters at my own request.”

 

Greg tilted his head to the side, the realization slowly bobbing to the surface. “You’re worried about me.”

 

One of Mycroft’s eyebrows quirked up towards his hairline. “Yes, of course,” he said, as though it should be obvious. “You find that strange?”

 

“A bit, yeah.”

 

“Oh.” Mycroft glanced away, micro flashes of emotion bubbling beneath the surface of his composure. After a moment of consideration, he came to some internal decision and looked back at Greg.

 

“Well, I do. Worry, that is.”

 

A huff of startled laughter escaped Greg. Despite his exhaustion, he was rather fascinated at the turn the conversation had taken. “You don’t even call me by my first name.”

 

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “I have so,” he said, mildly indignant.

 

“Pull the other one.”

 

Greg could almost imagine the gears shifting in Mycroft’s head as he raced through the memories of their association together, trying to find the one instance stored away in the vaults that would prove Greg wrong. Which made it all the more amusing when Mycroft came up empty.

 

“Thought so,” said Greg, chuckling. “What is it with you Holmeses and my name? Sherlock can’t call me the right one, and you forget to use it entirely.”

 

Mycroft scowled. If he had known how dangerously close to petulant it looked, he might have rethought the action.

 

“I assure you, unlike my brother, I am well aware of what your name is. I was merely observing professional decorum, Detecti-” Mycroft stopped short, shooting a glare at Greg’s emerging smirk. “Gregory.”

 

“Fancier than I need, but I’ll take it,” Greg said, enjoying his small victory. He was honestly a bit mystified by the man sitting across from him. It was like something had uncoiled inside that cold, tightly maintained persona. He never would have imagined a side of Mycroft that sulked when teased just right, or that displayed an unexpected depth of compassion for an aging, unassuming DI.

 

He also never would have imagined the growing fondness that was settling in his chest.

 

Greg straightened suddenly, unsure of further examining that particular discovery. “Anyway, thanks. For worrying. I guess I did wonder. Sometimes felt like I only mattered to you if I was chasing after your brother.”

 

There was no real bitterness behind the words, but they were enough to draw forth that quiet discomfort back onto Mycroft’s face.

 

“Well, I suppose I haven’t given you much reason to think otherwise,” Mycroft said. A small clock whirred and chimed softly on one of the bookcases, signaling the arrival of midnight. Mycroft’s eyes briefly gravitated towards the sound, merely acknowledging its presence. His gaze became indistinct as his lips compressed together. It was an expression that Greg was familiar with; it usually occurred when Mycroft was partially inside his own head, sorting through his thoughts.

 

“There was a time where I did not believe that Sherlock would live to see thirty. Five years ago his self-destructive tendencies had come to a head. And by then, he detested me so thoroughly that he no longer trusted nor wanted any help I had to offer.”

 

Mycroft paused to reach over for his drink. To Greg’s surprise, he tossed it back in one smooth motion. He pulled a face as he regarded the empty glass with disinterest.

 

“The simple truth is I’m quite inept as an older brother,” he said, something raw buried underneath his blasé tone. “I had failed Sherlock in so many ways that his resentment was only to be expected. Still, it was a devastating realization. And worse yet, I only had myself to blame.”

 

Greg shifted, leaning forward slightly. “And then he started appearing on my crime scenes.”

 

“Yes. When he began his association with you, I assumed you were nothing more than a passing diversion. But working with you did prove to be an effective deterrent from his normal coping mechanisms. So I decided to exploit that fact.”

 

Apprehension flashed across Mycroft’s face, gone as quickly as it had appeared. But it was enough to give Greg the strong impression that it was no easy task for Mycroft to talk as openly as he was at that moment.

 

“I’m afraid you are quite correct. I considered you dependable, trust-worthy, and fairly intelligent, but beyond your link to Sherlock, I saw little reason to give you a second thought. Your worth extended only as far as your usefulness in handling my brother.” Mycroft finally looked at Greg again. “It’s taken me far too long to understand what a disservice that was to you. For that, I am truly sorry.”

 

Greg felt his throat tighten, and he swallowed unsuccessfully against it. “Mr. Holmes, that’s… honestly, you don’t have to-“

 

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Mycroft took a slow breath, his eyes silently imploring Greg to allow him to finish. “My brother’s health and mental state are sounder than I have seen in years. You were the catalyst for that progress. And not once have you asked for anything in return. I may not be able to repay you for what you’ve done, but I can apologize for acting like a complete bastard. You deserve that much, at least.”

 

Greg stared at Mycroft, fumbling for some kind of response. He abruptly grabbed his own whiskey and downed the remainder, concentrating on the resultant warmth that flushed through his system.

 

“Thank you.” He met Mycroft’s eyes and held them, not knowing how to express what was in his head. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

 

And Mycroft smiled. An honest-to-God real smile that traveled all the way to his eyes. Something clicked into place in the back of Greg’s mind, new but still familiar. It was like he was seeing Mycroft properly for the first time.

 

The smile quickly turned self-conscious and disappeared, and Greg felt an unexpected twinge in his heart for the loss of it.

 

“Would you like another drink?” Mycroft asked, clearing his throat.

 

“Oh. Uh, yeah. If it’s not getting too late.”

 

“It’s fine. I have a fairly light schedule tomorrow.” Mycroft stood and walked over to Greg, not quite meeting his eyes. He looked as though he was struggling to rebuild his emotional barriers.

 

If Greg was honest, he didn’t want Mycroft to succeed.

 

“Alright.” He held out his tumbler. As Mycroft took hold of the glass, Greg's fingers curled around his wrist. Mycroft tensed, his eyes widening in confusion.

 

“Thank you,” Greg said. “It would have been pretty bad riding out this out by myself. I’m still a bit paranoid, but sitting here, talking; it really helped.”

 

Mycroft seemed frozen to the spot until Greg pulled his hand back. Mycroft hovered uncertainly for a second, and then nodded. “I’m glad to be of help.” He took a few steps towards the globe bar before stopping and turning back.

 

“I… I’ve rather enjoyed your company tonight. I would not be averse to repeating this experience under friendlier circumstances. If you were amenable.”

 

Greg felt the shift of energy between Mycroft and him. Both were acutely aware of it. He looked at Mycroft, considering what he knew of this complicated, reserved man, and of what he’d just learned. He thought about the simple honesty in Mycroft’s smile.

 

And he knew he wanted to chase that smile. He wanted to chase all of it.

 

“Yeah. I’d like that, Mycroft.”

**Author's Note:**

> One thing that tends to trip me up is occasionally the way I want to characterize Mycroft and/or Greg will suddenly change in the midst of writing the story. I especially worry about taking Mycroft too out of character. But I think this Mycroft still feels alright to me. I kinda feel what makes him fun to write, that it's possible to stretch the character in really interesting ways.


End file.
